


Lion Heart

by swaddledog



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Boromir Lives, Demonic Possession, Family Drama, Gen, POV Boromir, War of the Ring, because he never went to Rivendell to begin with, on account of the possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28750476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaddledog/pseuds/swaddledog
Summary: A year and a half ago, Faramir was killed in battle, and the war raged on. Boromir continued to lead his soldiers, even as his father slipped deeper into despair. He learned to shoulder Denethor's grief alongside his own, but as the days wore on, grief seemed to turn to delusion as the Steward of Gondor insisted without evidence that his second son still lived.Now, as the war with Mordor draws towards its end and the forces of the West rally to Minas Tirith, Boromir must face the horrifying truth. He once swore that he would do anything for the sake of Gondor, and Sauron intends to put that to the test.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir & Denethor, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright yall this was born out of my Halloween time desire for a demonic possession story involving my favorite fictional brothers. But I couldn't find anything like that, so I ghandi'd this bitch and decided to be the change i wished to see in the world. I mostly stick with book canon but tbh some aspects of book and movie canon have mingled in my mind, particularly concerning timelines of events. I denounce movie Denethor with all my heart, even though John Noble seemed like he was having a good time. 
> 
> The main point of canon divergence of this AU is that Boromir never went to Rivendell because Faramir was believed to be dead, and Gondor couldn't risk the only heir to the Stewardship and leader of their armies on a vision quest in the middle of a war.

"And now we will have the Captain-General's report."  
  
He'd heard nothing else of the council. All their steady voices had been like the buzzing of flies. Troublesome, but distantly so. Easily ignored for the mountain of concerns he carried. He'd left an ear open for the words that were his cue, and nothing else had found its way into his mind. The concerns of those present were not trivial. There weren't enough farm hands for the coming harvest, and crops would rot. There weren't enough men to transport said crops to the towns they needed to feed. There weren't enough guards in the city to keep up with the increase in crime. It all came back to the same problem: too many were dying in the war.  
  
He stood. Maybe missing his mark, but he stood, and that was enough to tip off all those present who were yet unaware of what had happened. He'd never been good at dressing things up, at skirting the issues. His hesitation lay only in the desperate desire to not speak the latest massacre into existence. He didn't want to make it a matter of record forever in the history of his great country.  
  
What choice was there? "Henneth Annun is lost. No further companies of Rangers are to be posted in Northern Ithilien for the foreseeable future. I have met with their Captain-"  
  
"Begging your pardon Captain-General! _Lost_ you say?!"  
  
There were muttered oaths and despairing questions and he had little to offer to allay any of it. "An ambush occurred late last night," he continued, refusing to address any questions yet. If he did, they would not stop. "Two men survived and have returned to the city to inform me of the situation-"  
  
"How is it possible? How could the enemy have discovered Henneth Annun, an outpost so secretive that even _you,_ the general of our armies, do not know its location?" one of the others asked.  
  
He didn't intend to answer until a stern tone cut through the cross-talk. "Do give us your best explanation, Captain-General."  
  
His throat tightened as he looked to his father at the head of the table. Boromir shook his head slightly. "It is perhaps possible that a scout followed someone back to the outpost."  
  
"While the exact location of the base is not known to me, I am well aware that its strategic usefulness stems from the geography of the area," Denethor responded evenly. "The path into the cavern is too narrow for more than one man to pass at a time. Were one to be followed, not only would he be aware, so too would the array of sentinels permanently stationed along this route. It is also exceptionally difficult for observers to track anyone leaving or entering."  
  
"I've no other explanation for you then, sir," he responded because he refused, _refused_ to feed this delusion-  
  
"Is there some chance that one of the Rangers was pressed for information?" someone offered instead. They wanted someone to blame. He held back an incredulous laugh. Did they not know they had only to look at the eastern horizon?  
  
He kept his calm, well versed in doing so at this table. "Mordor does not take prisoners. It is highly unlikely."  
  
"Perhaps you and I have heard two different accounts of what happened," Denethor said in his infuriating calm. Did the man feel nothing? It so reminded him of Faramir, their frightening ability to close themselves off, to be so detached from those around them and even themselves. The thought of living that way, it was suffocating. He watched as his father reached to the ground, to a satchel at his feet.  
  
Cold speared through his chest as he watched his father set a silver tipped ox-horn on the polished surface of the great oak table. There was a streak of old blood, rusted brown on ivory. The leather strap had snapped on one end. He'd seen it happen when

_Faramir was screaming at him to keep his word. Someone shoving Boromir back, away from the volley of arrows, away from his brother. Saw a flash of white and silver as Faramir smashed the horn into the face of the nearest orc. Saw one of the other rangers skewered beside Faramir like a worm on a hook. The orc grabbed at the strap of the horn, Faramir held firm, pulled, used the orc's weight to support himself as he kicked out at its centre of mass. The orc went back, the strap snapped, another dark arm around his brother's throat, Boromir surged forward against the warnings of his men, arrows, fire, chaos, blood-  
  
_ "Where did you find that?" he asked, unable to bring his voice to much more than a whisper.  
  
"It was returned to me by Madril. It was given to him by the one who led the raid on Henneth Annun."  
  
"So they kept it to taunt us," he insisted. He already knew that neither Madril nor Anborn had been able to identify any of the Men among the enemy's company. There had been only a few, far more Orcs. Their eyes saw better in the dark.  
  
"Was not your brother the last one seen with it?" Denethor asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why? You are the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor. Is it not your responsibility and privilege to be the one to bear it?"  
  
"I..." His mouth was so dry, suddenly. He wanted nothing more than to sit in a warm, quiet room, away from all of this. "I did not know..." He shook his head, ashamed. He had given it little thought since Faramir had been killed. He hadn't mentioned it to Adar at all. It seemed unimportant to worry over a lost trinket when a member of their family was dead. "I'd tossed it at him. I was jesting," he finally managed to say.  
  
_You're the one stubborn as a fucking ox so maybe you should keep this.  
  
It only sounds one note, but I'll still play it better than you._   
  
"You would treat the heirlooms of your House as a joke?"  
  
The silence at the council table was deafening, and a small part of his mind took the time to recognize how awkward it was for the others present to witness this discussion. It helped matters very little that he had no good explanation. Faramir was his brother. Of course he teased and mocked him. It wasn't about the stupid horn. "That was not my intent, sir," he responded finally.  
  
"Intent or not, it is my belief that your lack of professionalism may very well have cost Captain Faramir his life." The accusation cut through him like an icy blade and he looked sharply to his father. "They recognize the Horn of Gondor, and to whom it belongs. I believe that you were their target, not him. And for the sake of a joke, you gave them reason to believe that he was the heir to the Stewardship of our country."  
  
Rage was his instinctive response. Something had to smother away the guilt, after all. He clenched his jaw tightly before he could say any words he might regret.  
  
"With all due respect, Lord Steward, it seems a bit harsh to lay this at the Captain-General's feet," one of the others timidly suggested. Maybe they just wanted to address the defenses of their nation instead of witness the airing of dirty laundry.  
  
"What about our reality has not been harsh these past few decades?" Denethor asked calmly. That damned  _composure_ was perhaps the worst of all this. Why couldn't he scream at him that this was his fault? Why couldn't they just trade blows and end this? No, it had to be quiet, and plodding, and dreadful, and nauseating. "The leader of Gondor's armies should understand that. As he should understand his responsibility to his subordinates, including the former Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Now, because he wanted to have a bit of a laugh, he has the blood of one hundred and six Gondorim on his hands. One hundred and seven, should Anborn not last the day. And further, we are forced to abandon our most important strategic positions east of the Anduin. How will we keep eyes on the movements of the enemy as they move freely and unchecked within our borders? Who will remind them that the toll we levy for their use of our roads must be paid in blood?"  
  
"I have no interest in surrendering the entirety of Ithilien. Already we are outfitting the second company-"  
  
"The only remaining company," Denethor interjected.  
  
"-of Rangers for encampment outside the crossing at Poros. We have several positions of strategic interest soundly under our control, and we will be using them. Mordor's slaughter of our men will not go unpunished."  
  
"Were these positions known to Captain Faramir?"  
  
He hesitated before wincing and shaking his head sharply. "You truly insist-"  
  
"A simple yes or no will suffice."  
  
"Faramir is dead!" he snapped. He saw a few of the others flinch at his outburst but he didn't care. He was tired of this. Tired of Adar's insistence that Faramir yet lived, tired of him making tactical decisions based on that, tired of the guilt, tired of this war, tired of the loss! "You can not blame this on him! You can not strategize under the assumption that he still lives, and frankly I must question your fitness to lead if you continue to indulge this-this delusional notion!" He inhaled deeply, desperate for some of that wretched calm his father and brother so had in spades. He wasn't typically given to emotional outbursts before the council, but the days were no longer typical. "Mordor does not take prisoners." Not in living memory of anyone present. Maybe not even before that. No matter how valuable a target he or Faramir may be, Sauron had no use for either of them alive and would end their lives without regret. He had far more to gain in killing them and demoralizing all of Gondor than risking extracting information that may or may not even be true, or a setup for a preplanned ambush. There was no bargain to be struck between white tower and black, no matter who the captive, and both sides knew this well.  
  
Denethor continued as if his son hadn't just questioned his mental competence in front of the entire court. "If it is the case that these locations were known to Captain Faramir, I must deny you their use. If you can not answer my inquiries, I will find one who can. Have you anything else?"  
  
Closing his eyes briefly, and knowing that he would do nothing to change his father's mind with such emotionally charged rhetoric, he shook his head and took his seat. Were that Faramir was here. He was best at carefully composed arguments, meticulously researched and checked for cracks at every angle.  
  
"Oh, and Captain-General?"  
  
He looked up to see his father holding out the blood-stained horn. Boromir took it, and clutched it tight the rest of the meeting.  
  
Four days later, Osgiliath was lost.


	2. Chapter 2

He was reviewing and revising defenses for the Rammas when it was announced that Mithrandir had arrived. Whether the wizard knew it or not, a surge of hope came with him. Gondor, finally, was not alone.   
  
He'd finished with his work, dreading to share it with his father that evening over dinner. Denethor had never been a warm man. At least, not since Naneth passed. Boromir and Faramir had both learned how to read between the lines for the affection that other children were given freely. Faramir more so than himself, he admitted. Boromir knew he was much like his mother, and that this undoubtedly led to some of the preferential treatment from Adar. Faramir had barely had a chance to know their mother, and in turn had become more like Adar-quiet, reserved, thoughtful. But warmer. Kind and merciful where Adar was stern and pitiless. Adar said heads of state in times of war couldn't afford such concessions as mercy and pity.  
  
Now any hope of warmth or kindness from Adar had died with Faramir. Maybe it was guilt and regret. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, always at odds with each other anymore. Boromir did what he could to make them understand each other and it should've been so simple, given how alike they were in so many ways. Only now, with Faramir gone, could Adar see how little their differences mattered in the end. He did not treat Boromir poorly as a result, but it was like trying to speak to a ghost now. Something trapped elsewhere, distant and remote. Was this how Faramir had always felt? 

He sighed quietly at the maudlin turn his thoughts had taken. Why was this so difficult? Why could he not move past this the way he had with Naneth? Maybe being a child made it easier to accept that there were things outside of your own control. Maybe it was easier to believe Naneth dying had nothing to do with his own actions. 

He stopped before he slipped any deeper into the well of sadness he was so brazenly dancing around. There was too much to be done for him to obsess over the past.   
  
Boromir did not, it turned out, have to go far to find Mithrandir. He was in the Citadel garden, but he was not looking eastward, as most who came here did. A sandy-haired child stood beside him, fidgeting restlessly, but neither one spoke. The child glanced up at Boromir as he approached, plainly curious, and then Boromir realized that this was not a child at all. Vaguely, some piece of a half-forgotten dream tugged at his memory but he could not pull it forth, or imagine why this child-like creature would trigger such a thing.   
  
Finally, Mithrandir spoke, "I met your brother here in the autumn of 2998. He was studying for a report on warfare which he very much did not want to give."  
  
Boromir clenched his jaw but forced a smile. "Sounds like him, yes."  
  
Mithrandir approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You are not alone in your grief, Boromir."   
  
It seemed like such a simple thing to say, but the knot in his throat seemed to only tighten regardless. Because maybe it  _had_ felt like he was alone. Of course many knew his brother, and of course they grieved him too. But Boromir was their Captain General. Their leader. Should he falter, should he show how much it hurt even as the shadow of Mordor grew ever greater, what hope would that inspire? But he didn't need to give that hope to Mithrandir. "Thank you. I know that you were-" He almost said 'like a father to him', but stopped himself. "You were a good friend to him."  
  
Mithrandir's eyes revealed little of what he thought, but his lips pressed briefly into a tight line, and they were silent a little longer. Boromir could not help but look East, where dark clouds always gathered now. Where lightning flashed and fire burned. Would all the world look so horrid, should they fail? He was always sharply aware that was not just Gondor's fate which rested on his shoulders.  
  
"Soon," Mithrandir said now in Westron, perhaps for the sake of his companion. Boromir saw that he, too, was now looking out to the blackened horizon. "Soon the blow will fall, and I am afraid it will be here that the enemy strikes."  
  
"And I intend to make him regret it, dearly," Boromir said. The not-child beside Mithrandir looked heartened at that, a small smile on his round face, and only then did Boromir remember him. "Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Boromir, Captain-General of Minas Tirith."  
  
"That sounds far more important than anything I could call myself, so I think it is I who should be apologizing to you," the little fellow said in a lilting accent unfamiliar to Boromir's ears. "Peregrin Took, at your service."  
  
"Peregrin," Mithrandir warned. "You are not to throw such phrases around so casually to a man like this, lest you find yourself in the livery of Gondor."  
  
Peregrin looked startled at that, but Boromir smiled. "Worry not, Peregrin. I'm not so sure we'd find any that could fit you."  
  
"Well, that's a relief. I'm not so sure I'd be of much use, unless you have some ale that needs drinking or food that needs eating."  
  
Boromir laughed, and decided that he liked young Peregrin, even as Mithrandir sighed in that way he had -simultaneously fond and annoyed. "I would invite you to dinner in my home, but I am afraid I have important matters to discuss with Lord Denethor this evening-"  
  
"As do I," Mithrandir said merrily, as if totally oblivious to the rudeness of what he was about to suggest. "Let us take the meal together as you first thought to suggest."  
  
Boromir cringed internally but tried not to react poorly. His father was no fan of Mithrandir. But Boromir did not doubt he brought with him information that would benefit them in the coming days. It would be best to hear it as soon as possible, whether his father liked it or not. "Alright." He gave them the time and place, and returned to his rooms to prepare himself for what would almost certainly be another stressful evening.   
  
He had a page inform his father of the invitation he'd extended to Mithrandir. He also slipped the poor boy a few coins for his sacrifice. While Denethor was not one to lash out at those who attended him, his stern demeanor was intimidating to many. More so when one knew they were delivering bad news. And even if Mithrandir was here to tell them that the Valar themselves had come to whisk Sauron and all his evil creatures away to the Void with his master, Denethor still would've hated to receive the wizard for dinner.  
  
So it didn't surprise Boromir that his father's expression was more sour than usual. Peregrin gawked at their surroundings but said little as Mithrandir spoke. A strange but interesting tale, which one would expect of a wizard. For the past several months, he(and Peregrin) had traveled with a company of six others from out of the North on a vital mission. The Ring of Power,  _Sauron's_ Ring, had been found, and two others like Peregrin were on a course to destroy it.   
  
Boromir had to admit that he took the news nearly as hard as Denethor. "If the weapon of the enemy has been found, why risk him taking it back? Why did you not deliver it to us here, so that we may use it against him?" Boromir wondered. It seemed the most obvious plan to him, but he was no servant of the Valar. He had to work with what was most practical.  
  
Mithrandir was plainly disturbed by the mere thought. "It can be wielded by none save him."  
  
"But Isildur-"  
  
"Isildur is why we are here, now, wondering how best to face flame and shadow," Mithrandir said and Boromir bristled. Sometimes, he understood why his father disliked the wizard so much. "Perish the thought, Boromir, for as well-intentioned as it is, works of the enemy can do naught but corrupt. So in your desire to use this thing for good, you would find yourself inexorably driven to do evil, in the end."  
  
"Fair enough," Boromir stubbornly admitted. "Yet, if it must be destroyed, why not then entrust it to our armies? You say these two...two Hobbits?" Here Mithrandir nodded. "They are like Peregrin. Small, not given to warfare. Is it the best idea to send them into Mordor with no guides or protection? Navigating the treacherous terrain of that land is no easy feat, let alone dealing with the hordes of monsters that live in it."  
  
"They have a guide," Mithrandir said. "And their small stature lends them an advantage. Their kind is of little interest to Sauron. He would never think to look for them. Nor would he think for a moment that we would attempt to destroy the Ring of Power in the first place."  
  
Boromir did his best to consider Mithrandir's argument, but it was a struggle. All he could think about was the lost potential. Could they not wield the Ring temporarily? Just enough to lend their armies the strength to win this coming battle, and then do away with the wretched thing? He supposed it was immaterial now. The Ring was not within reach of any in Gondor now. None knew where it was, save two Hobbits and their guide. It was not his way to wonder over what-ifs. The reality of their situation was far too pressing to afford him such indulgences.  
  
"Did you tell your Halfling friends this before you sent them to their deaths?" Denethor asked dryly, face like stone.   
  
"Adar," Boromir said. He didn't intend to affect the same tone of warning he used with green recruits, but it came naturally. His father's stern manner was nothing new, but this was plainly insulting. And very unlike him, even in Mithrandir's company.   
  
"Is it now a crime to question the wisdom of wizards while they sit at my table and calmly explain to me how they have engineered the doom of my people?" Denethor responded.  
  
"This war has not yet been decided," Mithrandir answered. "I come to offer my aid, and some amount of hope, such as it is."  
  
"I place no hope in your machinations, Ithron."  
  
"Adar, you are being hasty," Boromir said. "Mithrandir's aid is invaluable."  
  
"So thought your brother. And where is he now, Boromir?"  
  
"Adar..."  
  
"He rots in Mordor while you speak of hope and Halflings. Each day his suffering grows, so long as Sauron holds a seat of power, and here his  _friend_ , his  _ally_ , sits, and tells me that he gave up the very thing which could have saved him from torment-"  
  
"Adar, enough," Boromir said sharply and he regretted it instantly as poor Peregrin grimaced beside him. "I struggle already to entertain your delusions. Do not lay them at the feet of others."  
  
Mithrandir narrowed his eyes and Denethor laughed humorlessly. "I am no feeble child, Mithrandir. Do not attempt to read what lies in my mind. Nor am I incompetent, Boromir. You think what you will, but I know the truth, as I have ever known it. Mithrandir uses those he claims to care for as tools to further an end. So he has done with Faramir so that he may always have knowledge of Gondor's doings. So he has done to your friends and kinsmen, Master Took. Though to what end, we shall yet see."  
  
"What makes you believe, then, Lord Denethor, that Faramir still lives?" Mithrandir asked with far more patience than Boromir would have had in his situation.  
  
"It matters not," Denethor answered. "You have condemned us all." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's me, im the hoe that won't let the world forget boromir and faramir have fairly recent elvish heritage~

His Uncle and the Swan Knights which could be spared from Dol Amroth arrived the following day. Amrothos came as well, the remainder of his cousins back away south to keep the defenses strong along the coast and mouth of the Anduin. It was always heartening to have his mother's family near. He had ever shared more of his blood with their side of the family and it showed in his lighter, straighter hair, darker skin, bold and free spirit. "It's the Elf-blood," Imrahil always joked, but Boromir wondered that there might be some bit of truth in it. They did not share in the regal and ethereal traits of the High Elves, but the wild nature of the lower Silvan kind.   
  
Unfortunately, there were no jokes to be had with his uncle and cousin this day. They were uncharacteristically somber and tense. They all felt the nearness of the end, possibly the end of all. As he looked at young Amrothos, Boromir was renewed in purpose. He would do anything it took to give people like his cousin a future to look forward to.   
  
They spoke of strategies and plans with Mithrandir and the other captains of the various companies which had convened here. It was the greatest gathering of strength to Minas Tirith which Boromir had ever overseen, and the numbers quickly became dizzying. Osgiliath was briefly debated, as it was there the enemy would have to make their crossing. It was suggested that if it could be taken back, then Sauron's armies would be forced into a bottleneck if they wanted to reach the other bank of the Anduin.   
  
Boromir ultimately advised against it. Too much of their power would be wasted there and to gain what? A little more time while the Rohirrim made their way southward. Time they needed, yes, but Boromir would rather earn it with sacrificing as few of his countrymen as he could. They stood better chances reinforcing the defenses of the Outer Wall and the gates of Minas Tirith than fighting for the ruined city on the river.   
  
Adar was strangely silent, offering little counsel, and when Boromir glanced to him he did not like what he saw. Now more than ever, his father seemed so distant and removed from reality. Like they were all gathered for some discussion of little consequence to him, and they could not hold his interest. He could not tell if that alone was the reason for the nausea welling up in him, or the horrors that the coming days promised.   
  
Barring some new and vital information or event, the final council before the battle adjourned.  
  
He took his dinner with Mithrandir and Peregrin again, and Imrahil and Amrothos joined them. But his father was absent entirely, which did little to help his waning appetite. Amrothos asked after his uncle, and Boromir could only shake his head. "I know not where he has gone. His study is empty. Maybe he's up in the tower, as he often is lately. I suppose it's very quiet there, with few distractions and interruptions."  
  
"He does not seem well," Imrahil said. Like himself, he didn't mince words or waste time.  
  
Boromir shrugged. "Who among us is, now? The deciding battle of this war draws near."  
  
"Yes," Mithrandir said. "And your people have need of a strong leader they can look to for assurance."  
  
"My father has stared Sauron in the face for nearly forty years without flinching," Boromir said. "If the people doubt his strength, then I know not what else he can do to change that." Then he sighed, because Mithrandir was  _right._ Before, despite all his father's flaws as a parent, Boromir had never once doubted Denethor's competence and strength as a leader, as their leader. But now, when they needed him most, he seemed fit to break. It was unfair from every angle. How could they ask so much of one man? How could they ask him to carry the weight of this threat and the cost of keeping it at bay and then demand he show no cracks or dents in his armor in the end? And how could their Steward withdraw so deeply into his own despair when his people had the most desperate need of his strength? Did Adar think he was the only one suffering?   
  
Then Boromir marveled at his own selfishness. When the people suffered, their Steward bore it. But who among them was there to bear his?   
  
"It will soon matter little," Imrahil said. "Your father has done what he can for Gondor. It is up to the rest of us to see these plans through and pray to Nienna in these coming days."  
  
There was a brief silence then, until Peregrin-who Boromir learned preferred to be called Pippin-finally spoke. "Who is Nienna?"  
  
Mithrandir sighed his typical put-upon sigh, but the rest of them smiled fondly at the Hobbit despite how briefly they'd known him. "Nienna is one of the Valar, our gods, you might call them. She is the Lady of Mercy," Imrahil explained patiently. "Perhaps if it is within her grace, she may find some way to show us some."  
  
"She can do that?" Pippin asked.   
  
"It is unknown for sure," Boromir responded. "But it does little harm to take comfort in the idea."  
  
"If the Valar can do that," Pippin ventured, "why do they not do something about...about Him?" They needed no clarification to know who Pippin spoke of.  
  
"That is why I am here, fool of a Took," Mithrandir said sharply.   
  
Pippin's eyes grew round at that, and it was plain he'd until now given little consideration to who-and what-exactly Mithrandir was. "You are a Valar?"  
  
"Vala is the singular term," Mithrandir corrected. "And heavens no. I am but a servant, as are my kin."  
  
"But Saruman-"  
  
"Saruman strayed, fell victim to the wiles of the enemy," Mithrandir told him. "Sauron's manipulations are powerful, even to the strongest of minds, his thralls like iron chains. He would not be here still if it was not so."  
  
Pippin swallowed, and stared at his plate.   
  
"You did not think I only existed to entertain young Hobbits with fireworks, did you?" Mithrandir asked with a gentler, teasing tone. There was a small ripple of laughter from the table, not at Pippin's expense exactly.  
  
Pippin smiled too. "Well, no. Not after that monster in Moria. But I didn't know you...you came from the same place as those Valar."  
  
"Monster in Moria?" Amrothos asked, plainly intrigued.   
  
"What did you call it Gandalf? A bogrot?"  
  
"A  _balrog._ "  
  
Amrothos let slip a stunned curse and Boromir's brows shot towards his hairline. "A balrog! Truly!" he cried. Their chances of victory seemed suddenly so much slimmer...  
  
But then Mithrandir shook his head. "Rest easy. It was but one, stray, asleep at the roots of the mountains until our intrusion." Here Boromir did not miss the way Pippin suddenly fidgeted with his scarf and flushed red, but asked nothing. It was clear there was a story here but he did not wish to put the poor young Hobbit on the spot. "It is unlikely that Sauron's forces include one of those, let alone many, or he would have set it upon you by now."  
  
Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. "Well. Nienna's mercy indeed." The others laughed and he was pleased he could do that much for them.   
  
"Tell us more of your journey south, Mithrandir," Amrothos said.   
  
"I'd say you've heard the most intriguing part already," Mithrandir answered. "But the journey only grew stranger the farther south we traveled, it seems." The full story apparently began before Boromir was even born, with some Hobbit called Baggins and a number of Dwarven folk. Boromir had heard this story once as a child already, though it appeared a significant feature had been omitted. Mithrandir glossed over the whole thing this time around, hurrying on to the legendary Imladris and the meeting there of many people of different races for different reasons. And then Mithrandir and his Hobbit friends were off, aided by representatives of each of the other remaining peoples of Arda-a Man called Strider, an Elf prince called Legolas, and a Dwarf named Gimli.   
  
Their band traveled south out of Imladris, and attempted to cross the Misty Mountains at Caradhras. They were sabotaged by one of Mithrandir's order, Curunir, who had allied himself with Sauron. This was known to Boromir. News came out of Rohan of such suspicions, and through means unknown to him, his father was able to confirm it as true. It'd been a heavy blow. Ithron were powerful beings, and Boromir would hope to never meet one in battle.   
  
With Curunir threatening their passage, they took to Moria, and Mithrandir was believed to have fallen to the balrog. But he slew it, and was returned to Arda with renewed purpose and strength. He let Pippin tell part of the tale here, as he had not been present to witness it himself. And the young Hobbit spun a fine story. It was somehow just as engrossing coming from him despite his youth and inexperience. And he had a good sense of humor, even in regards to himself. "...And after I looked into that wretched ball, Gandalf thought it best we come here, to your fine city," Pippin finished. "I'm not sure what's come of Strider and the others. I only know that maybe I made out best in the end. Here I sit in a grand hall eating fine food with good company, while they must travel some dingy road under a mountain of dead people-"  
  
"Peregrin Took," Mithrandir snapped suddenly, but it was a little late.  
  
Imrahil raised an eyebrow. "You set the Man, Dwarf, and Elf on the Paths of the Dead?"   
  
Amrothos wrinkled his nose and it was plain he didn't understand the implications. No one who knew what that place was went there. And certainly Mithrandir did not send those three without purpose, not in so dire a time as this. "Why send them away like that? Would they not be of better use to us, or King Theoden?"  
  
Boromir turned his gaze on Mithrandir, but he would've been unreadable even if Boromir possessed the keener sight of his brother and father. "Who, exactly, is this Man, Mithrandir?" he asked. There had to be some other perfectly good reason to send a Dunedain out of the North to Dunharrow.   
  
"His true name," Mithrandir said at length, "is Aragorn, son of Arathorn."  
  
There was silence then. Amrothos' mouth opened but then he quickly closed it, as if afraid to say the wrong thing.  
  
_Revered king._   
  
"Surely you are joking," Boromir said finally. He laughed because the alternatives were too enraging, too frightening, too upsetting, too much hope. "Surely, none of the line of Elendil still live. And surely, if they did, they would not have neglected the struggle of their kin and country against so evil an enemy. Surely, he would not have sat idly by while the blood of his people was spilled endlessly over his kingdom's soil."  
  
"Think not that he has been idle, Boromir," Mithrandir responded sharply. "For Gondor is not the only land which Sauron has inflicted himself upon."  
  
"But it is  _our_ land," Boromir responded just as sharply. "It is  _our_ people, dying by scores, every day. And what has he done for them? What?"  
  
"Perhaps that is something which you could ask your Lord Steward," Mithrandir answered. "Or you may have heard such tales in your youth. You may remember the face of the man behind them, even. For did you not so love to hear of the exploits of the great soldier of your grandfather's armies, Captain Thorongil?"  
  
The name in this context was like a slap to the face and he thought he might be ill. He shook his head as if by sheer force of will he could refuse reality itself. "No."  
  
"Thorongil," Imrahil echoed, apparently just as dazed as himself. Amrothos looked uneasy but said nothing. "He is the heir of Elendil?"  
  
"No," Boromir repeated. Thorongil was his hero in childhood and his inspiration in adulthood. He'd studied accounts of Thorongil's captaincy enough to have all of his campaigns memorized. He could not reconcile the burning resentment he'd felt for this Aragorn with the admiration he held for Thorongil. "No, I do not accept this claim."  
  
"Boromir, that is not to be decided by us," Imrahil warned him gently. He understood at least the shock of it all.  
  
"And you think my father will find no fault with this?" Boromir laughed mirthlessly, short and sharp. "Gondor has made it this far without her king. Perhaps that is a sign that she has no use for one." He stood and bid them a clipped parting, unwilling to entertain this conversation any further. No proof had been put forth. Just a name, and an implication of a power that had not yet been tested. A small, more rational part of himself knew that it was not a subject he could ignore for long. He would have to face this Northern Ranger's claim and confer with others more learned than himself about its validity.   
  
But the bitter, angrier animal hind-brain snarled back that soon, there may not even be a remnant of a country for the man to reclaim.   



	4. Chapter 4

He was calmer in the morning. As calm as Gondor's Captain-General could be before the greatest siege his city had ever known, at least. Sauron's forces would be upon the Rammas by noon, if they kept their devastating pace. Boromir could not easily say how long they could keep them from breaching the wall, but he knew soon after they'd be at the city's gates. And Gondor's would-be king played along with old ghost stories while his countrymen prepared for the harsh reality of war.  
  
He snorted to himself and shook his head. Was it so terrible that a king may yet sit on the throne again? Wasn't this what he and many others had hoped for? Why now was it such a bitter thought? Mithrandir was right, as ever-Thorongil had done much for Gondor. And, if the old Ithron was right, Thorongil's path would bring him here in time to aid them. Was that not enough to prove his desire to defend his country? He could just as easily have returned North and left them to see this war through on their own. To wait out the carnage and see if there was anything worth reclaiming in the end. Should it not be heartening that he was rallying to them instead?  
  
And maybe it had been a good idea for Thorongil to keep his distance. Boromir knew there was little love between the famous captain and the current Steward. Making his claim could have only served to divide Gondor's loyalties in a time when it couldn't afford anything other than perfect unity. Really, it should've been encouraging to realize that this Aragorn was thoughtful enough to consider such things instead of rushing for the power and glory that would come with his throne. But stubbornly, Boromir's heart didn't want to budge on the issue. The anger had left him, at least, but sometimes he thought he preferred it to emptier and sadder feelings. Anger didn't give you time to dwell. How different things could have been with a king to look to for guidance! For someone to help shoulder Adar's impossible burden in leading them through these terrible dark days. And the stewardship would have hardly weighed so heavy on his own shoulders if there was no need for the office anymore.  
  
He'd marveled somewhat as that revelation totally unfurled itself in his mind, a fragile blossom of relief in bitter soils. He had not outright dreaded his impending role as Ruling Steward. He'd been raised carefully to take that office, after all, and his father was a demanding teacher. He and Faramir both were always playfully accused of being overachievers and perfectionists by their cousins, but they simply understood no other way of being. It'd been drilled into his head especially that some day, he would face weighty decisions, dire circumstances, scorn and judgement, any number of difficult realities, and that lordship over Gondor was a lonely and challenging path.  
  
But now, it seemed, it did not have to be. Not if they still stood after the oncoming storm.  
  
He was relieved to find his father waiting for him at breakfast. The thought of departing to the field of battle without one more meeting with Adar as his father instead of lord had twisted his heart. Now he could at least speak with him, alone, without the eyes and ears of nobles and captains present.  
  
As ever, Adar spoke plainly. "The end comes today."  
  
Boromir nodded soberly. "For him. Not for Gondor. I swear it."  
  
Adar wouldn't be swayed, his demeanor grave but stoic. "It is unwise to make promises that can not be kept. Our doom is near. I have seen what awaits us and this foe we can not hope to master."  
  
He tried not to fall to anger. His father was already so low. It'd do no one any good if Boromir climbed down into this pit alongside him. "Well, hope we must, if that is what it takes. Please. If not for my sake, then for Gondor's, believe that we may yet win this."  
  
Finally, Adar looked at him and to Boromir it seemed like he had aged a decade in a single evening. Had his eyes always been so tired and weary? Had the lines in his face always been etched so deeply? They were of Numenor, and even at 89, his father yet had many years left before him. What was happening? He thought then of Naneth, how she'd grown weaker and frailer with each passing day. She, too, had seemed suddenly so much older, even to his oblivious young eyes. "My son," he said quietly, sombrely. "The treachery of Sauron is greater than you can know. But I fear you will soon understand."  
  
Boromir sighed, but spent no more effort to change his father's mind. He was well loved among his soldiers for his ability to inspire hope and perseverance, even in the face of the most challenging battles and in the wake of the most devastating losses. But he felt helpless here beside his own father. What sort of son did that make him?  
  
He clenched his jaw against the thought. "Then I will simply make you know what I know: Gondor will not fall today." He would sacrifice everything he had to make it so.  
  
The time between that final conversation with his father and the arrival of Sauron's forces seemed to both stretch on forever and vanish in the blink of an eye. There was so much he felt he still needed to prepare. So many orders to review, troop arrangements, the state of the various evacuations, defensive formations, even the condition of the armories managed to nag at him. But then he'd look to the sky and it felt as if the sun had hardly moved. He'd anxiously await the arrival of the next round of news from the Causeway Forts, only to realize he'd only just received the last update less than half an hour prior.  
  
Mithrandir's encouragement was heartening, especially in light of his father's decidedly more pessimistic outlook. He did not doubt that the Ithron could sense his nervousness, even if he was well trained in restraining his emotions before battle. "The armies of Rohan will soon come," Mithrandir said once the first ranks of Mordor came into view from the circles of Minas Tirith. They'd reach the towers of the Causeway Forts. "And so to will Thorongil."  
  
His heart wrenched and his mind recoiled. How could one hope for something to happen and not? Was he going mad? He shook his head. Madness could wait. Gondor needed him now and he refused to give anything less than the entirety of his being. "May Manwe give wings to their feet," he muttered as he watched dark figures slowly blot out the greens and browns of the distant fields and road, a creeping rot blighting his beloved country.  
  
It was not long before word reached him that the Causeway Forts had fallen. The men there had fought hard, but the Nazgul Captain came, and he was incapable of mercy. The soldiers scattered, terror-stricken, and were easily picked off until none were left. Now the Rammas was officially breached. The city had to fare better.  
  
He was inspecting his own weapons one final time when the patter of bare feet on stone reached his ears, a strange sound in the halls of the Citadel. His brows drew together briefly until he found the source, a young and nervous Hobbit. The only one in all of Gondor, perhaps. Pippin bowed his head briefly, hesitant, before saying, "I want to help."  
  
Boromir tilted his head, considering how best to utilize that offer. Others may have ridiculed Pippin for thinking there was anything he could do at a time like this. Boromir saw only the courage and heart it took to look over the walls of the city and say such a thing. Still, he would not see someone so young and inexperienced sent anywhere near the front of what promised to be the most horrific battle this country had seen in many lifetimes. "So be it," he said. "Peregrin Took, I accept you into the service of the army of Gondor." This was not at all how one inducted new recruits, but there was hardly the time for ceremony now. As the Captain-General, his word was good as law for matters concerning the military. The Hobbit looked a bit startled, but also relieved, like he expected some resistance. "Your orders are to remain here, in the Citadel with the Tower Guard."  
  
Pippin nodded firmly. "And what will I do here?"  
  
"Keep an ear open. Should dire need arise, some of you may be called to the lower levels of the city as reinforcements." Technically the truth, but he would be certain to inform whoever accompanied Pippin in the Citadel that he was not to be sent away if such a call came. "Until then, I ask you this not as your captain, but as a friend. Please, look out for my father."  
  
Here, Pippin's lips pressed together and his eyes took on a most uncharacteristically serious glint. "Yes, sir." 

The rush of movement caught his attention, and he instantly found a handful of men headed their way. One a confused Citadel guard, another a sombre lieutenant, and the third a very petrified Ranger. The left side of his face was covered in blood, and his cheek was smudged with dirt. "Captain Boromir," his lieutenant started, but the instant the Ranger laid his wild eyes on him, he nearly tripped over himself running forward.

"You have to kill him! You have to-" 

The man fell and Boromir tensed. He'd seen men break like this before. It was impossible to predict who it'd be, or what would do it, and that was part of what made it so terrifying. And were the men who snapped weak? Or were the ones who didn't the worse for it? 

The Citadel guard caught the frantic man before he could hit the ground. "Easy, easy," the guard said in a low voice.

"What is this about?" Boromir demanded. There was not enough time for something like this. He was no healer, and while he'd talked his share of soldiers through their fears and nightmares, there was a very real threat digging trenches outside the city and preparing for a massacre. 

The lieutenant shook his head. "He's come back from the Causeway. Says-"

"It's Captain Faramir but it's  _not._ It's, I don't know, I don't-" The man's face crumpled then and he struggled to get a hold of himself. 

"I have no time for this!" Boromir snapped like a taunted beast at the mention of his brother's name. 

"You fucking make time! He's not right, he's not _right!_ You have to do something!" the Ranger snapped back, surging forward with flailing hands grasping for him. Boromir raised his arm in a defensive gesture, but the Citadel guard held the Ranger firm and the man began to gasp and shudder. 

"He...he's not entirely-" the lieutenant started, then cleared his throat. Were they all trying to test his patience? Did they not understand what was happening? "I-This fellow came to me with this. Demanding to see you."

The lieutenant held something out. A knife in a worn leather scabbard, and a crumpled, paper stained with red that'd presumably been pierced through by the knifepoint. The scabbard was standard issue for Ithilien Rangers. Nearly all their weapons and gear were required to be that way, since they relied so much on stealth. Adornments on armor or weaponry risked attracting attention. 

But this knife was a little different. Still very simple and plain, but well crafted, and Boromir was very familiar with it. He had selected it as a gift for Faramir the day he had been made Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. His heart clenched at the sight of it, and it was not black Orc blood that had dried on its handle or the note that came with it. First the horn, and now this. Had they saved his things to send them back piece by piece? 

"Where did you get this?" Boromir asked in a low voice, as if someone might overhear. He looked then at the note, written in a hand he knew so well. It was not some ransom note, or some sort of manifesto. It wasn't even a declaration of war. It was just the innocent sort of thing one boy might say to another as they ran laughing through their home, drunk off the sheer joy of each other's company in an otherwise lonely childhood. It simply said: 

NOW YOU HIDE.

AND I'LL SEEK.


End file.
